The Burden of Secrets

Chapter 8

As I opened the front door after school, my phone buzzed in my pocket.

I saw it was Greg; one of my mates and one of my team members on the school football team.

We didn't often speak on the phone-just texts and messaging so it seemed a bit odd.

"Hey Greg, what's up?"

"Hey Zeke, Mr Fisher asked me to call you. Wants to know where you are."

Shit, I had forgotten to tell him that I wasn't going to be playing today. He would have known I was back at school from Mrs Mackenzie, my form tutor. He wouldn't know anymore than she did-that I'd been off sick for a week. I still had Mum's letter crumpled in my pocket. When Mrs Mackenzie had asked what was wrong with me, I had just lied and told her that I had had Norovirus. No ones asks you much after that.

"Tell him sorry, I forgot to tell him I couldn't play today."

"Ok, I'll tell him. Gotta go."

As I tapped the phone off, I ignored my longing for being on the football pitch with my team as I took my coat off and hung it on the rack. Mum came down the hallway then, her coat on. She had a full face of make up, her hair was styled and her strong, familiar perfume tickled my nose. She looked like normal – before all this happened. For some reason it gave me a sense of hope. Like maybe this would end up being a horrible mistake and everything would be normal again.

"Good, you are home. I have to run, I'll see you later. Just call for a pizza or something for dinner. "

"Will you be back to eat?"

"No, no, I have a staff meeting after classes today, so I won't be back until late. I'll get something later."

She kissed me on the cheek almost without looking at me and then was out the door in a puff of perfume.

As the door slammed behind her, my phone beeped - a message this time.

"Fishy is pissed. Says that you should find him tomorrow."

Great, now he was annoyed with me and I'd have to deal with a rant from him tomorrow.

I shoved my phone in my pocket and sought out Dad.

He was sat on the comfy chair, his now tiny legs up on the poufee and covered in a grey fluffy blanket.

Countdown played on the TV. On the rare occasions that he was home by this time on a weeknight, he would watch this show. When I was little I was always amazed at how he managed to get such big words and how he always figured out the Maths section quicker than anyone. He would sometimes record it and he and Zane, the Maths whizz-kid, would go head to head. Dad never lost.

"Wanna battle?" I asked him, as I sat on the sofa.

He sighed and pulled his hand through his thick, curly hair.

"I can't really concentrate on anything at the moment...."

"Oh," I felt sad for him then. He looked like the life had been sucked out of him already. "Hungry? Thirsty?"

"Has your mum gone?"

I nodded.

"A whiskey then. Glenmorangie."

I bit my tongue and did what he asked. I ignored the fact that it was barely 4pm on a Tuesday afternoon. I had changed mindset since the other week. If he wanted to be drunk through his last few weeks, who was I to tell him that he shouldn't. The Palliative care Doctors and nurses had basically said he can have whatever he fancies now. I don't think this was quite what they meant, but nevermind....